Airplanes In The Night Sky
by PwnedByPineapple
Summary: Deaths. Alfred knows, with horrific certainty, that this is what Arthur is counting. "Remembering... it's the only thing I can do for them." Semi-historical Blitz fic.


**I received a request to write a non-yaoi Blitz fic featuring England and America, and I was more than happy to oblige. Semi-historical because it's more character-focused. Recommended listening: "Airplanes (Cover)" by The Ready Set.**

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><p>There are always a thousand things weighing on a nation's mind - five hundred problems, one hundred possibilities, a dozen opinions, and yet just one partitioned soul. It's this last that sometimes threatens to drive the United States insane, but today he's listening to Alfred. Today, he ignores isolationism's political headache, and today, he is not America. He is simply Alfred F. Jones, world's resident hero and concerned little brother.<p>

Not that he would _ever_ admit the latter out loud.

He hasn't seen England much since the war began, and that's part of the reason why Alfred is starting to resent words like 'neutrality'... particularly because both sides of him know it's only a matter of time before his people can no longer hide behind that word. Witnessing England's physical state is enough to make him seethe, and today Alfred has the impulsive urge to beat the shit out of Ludwig and show _him_ what it feels like.

Not that England makes it obvious. There's a yellowish bruise under his left eye - Coventry, Alfred thinks, having paid attention for once - but that is the extent of visible physical injury; everything else is well-covered. Yet there are other things not so easily hidden - a constantly rigid stance, drained eyes, a hand that occasionally, unconsciously strays to a heart... little things like this that tell Alfred exactly how his older brother is dealing.

Alfred gives a little 'hmph'. And people think he can't read a situation.

"Arthur!"

England ignores him, at first, but this only makes Alfred more determined. A few people glance curiously at him as he politely but firmly pushes past them, and he reaches England just as England reaches the stairs. Alfred's taller, so it's easy for him to block those stairs. "Arthur," he says again, then pauses. Come to think of it, he hasn't really considered what he's going to say - what he's _supposed _to say.

England's eyes narrow as he looks up at Alfred, not quite angry, not quite relieved, not quite anything, really. He's frighteningly in-between all emotions, utterly controlled, and it's clear that he is _not_ Arthur right now. And who can blame him? "What are you doing here, America?" he says at last, tiredly.

"I came to see you."

There's a measure of disbelief in England's eyes, and he doesn't answer right away, as if expecting Alfred to reveal the joke. When it's apparent that no further words are forthcoming, England sighs. "Well, that's quite the pointless venture, isn't it? Go back home."

"No." It's just one word, but uttered so calmly and resolutely that England is taken aback. Alfred is quite serious about this particular venture, and there's a hardness in his gaze. "I came to check on you, and I'm not leaving until I'm satisfied," he says, arms folded.

"Satisfied with _what_?" England demands, spreading his arms as if to show that he is, in fact, whole. "What could you possibly want? This isn't your war, remember?"

Alfred doesn't want to be reminded of that particular headache right now, but it's reassuring to see a hint of anger, of emotion in England's eyes. Anything is better than nothing. And even though Alfred's always been good at spouting words, he isn't quite sure how to respond. After all, he can't just admit that he's worried, can he? He has no _right _to, with his policies, and even though Alfred's used to being a hypocrite, he can't quite bring himself to confess how angry and concerned and frustratingly useless he feels.

"Look," he finally says. "Can we just... get a drink or something?"

England stares at him incredulously and takes a moment to answer. "I don't know if you've _noticed_," he says slowly, "but I am at _war_, and I've got these goddamned _attacks _to deal with."

"And you're driving yourself into the ground," Alfred growls, shifting his position as England attempts to push past him. He knows that the English are resilient and so is England, but he also knows just how tired Arthur must be. "What have you been doing all day? Working on defensive strategy? Not much more you can do today, is there?" He gestures to the near-emptiness of the place; when he'd arrived, it'd been bustling. "Take a break, Arthur. Just for tonight. Please."

England hesitates, and Alfred knows there's an internal war going on, a conflict between carrying burden and laying it aside, even temporarily. And then England deflates, and Alfred can almost see certain barriers crumbling.

"Fine," Arthur says with a rueful shake of his head. "Churchill told me the same thing, you know. But I just want to go home, all right?"

Alfred nods, relieved that he doesn't have to put up a fight in order to get Arthur to slow down. "Of course."

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><p>A large area around Arthur's house is relatively untouched. Alfred has seen some of the damage caused by the raids, but there is none of that here. He wonders briefly about that, but once inside, he takes charge, determined to prove himself useful in even the most useless ways. He's so busy running around and failing at making tea that he doesn't even notice Arthur's tired amusement. After the third failed attempt, the older nation orders him to stop and takes charge of tea himself.<p>

"Please don't make any food," Alfred begs, hovering in the doorway after having been ordered out of the kitchen.

Arthur scowls. "Shove off," he says. "I cannot _believe_ you are insulting my cooking at a time like this."

"Some things are never gonna change, Artie."

"I said _shove off_."

Of course, Alfred doesn't listen, and neither does Arthur expect him to. The younger nation keeps up a light banter, making good use of his ability with words now that the threat of actually revealing his feelings has passed. And he doesn't stop even when Arthur is done with the tea. They sit down at the kitchen table, and Alfred tells him of trivial things, things not of war. He speaks of The Sea Hawk and The Ox-Bow Incident and Only Forever and laments the fact that Sliding Billy Hamilton is no longer with them, but did you know, the Cincinnati Reds won the World Championship, their first since that stuff that went down in '19. And through it all, Arthur merely listens, smiles occasionally, appears to relax ever so slightly. Alfred figures this is good for him, that maybe it's comforting to remember that life can still go on in a place not yet touched by war. It certainly seems to help, and Alfred is just happy to be able to talk to his brother, as he has not been able to in a long time.

He only stops when he realizes how late it's getting, looking at the darkness outside one of the kitchen windows. "You should really get some sleep," he tells Arthur worriedly.

Arthur once again looks amused, perhaps by the fact that it's Alfred acting like a parent for the third time that day. "That's a good idea," he says wearily and grabs both empty cups just before Alfred can, getting up to place them in the sink. "I can handle my own bloody dishes."

Alfred shakes his head ruefully and stands, stretching. And the next two things he hears are things that take root inside his mind and live there for a long time: a whining, chilling siren and the shattering of glass.

Alfred's eyes grow wide, and his head whips around. Both cups are in pieces on the ground, and Arthur is staring down at the shards without seeing them. "Not again," he whispers. Then he clutches at his heart, and Alfred feels the first attack as well, through the anger and fear that for a moment consume him completely at seeing Arthur hurt so.

Then he's thinking rationally again; he has to, for Arthur's sake. Two leaping steps takes him to Arthur's side, but the older nation pushes him away, channeling pain into defiance. "I... don't need your help," England practically growls, grasping at his chest uselessly as the cruel mockery of a heart attack begins in earnest. Alfred once again tries to assist despite this refusal, when England seems to drop to the ground, but it becomes apparent that the older nation has a purpose. He's tracing the outline of a circle onto the wood floor, muttering something unintelligible as far as Alfred is concerned, and the faintest trail of light follows his finger.

"What are you doing?" Alfred demands. It's magic of some sort, that much he can tell, but he can't figure out what it could possibly be for... that is, until he remembers how such a large region around England's house is completely untouched. His eyes, if possible, grow even wider. "Protection?" he wants to know, and though England does not answer, Alfred is certain he's arrived at the right conclusion.

He doesn't like this; magic unnerves him under good circumstances, and he doesn't think anyone in England's state should be working it. And it soon becomes clear that whatever spell England is casting is too much for him to handle. Blood is starting to drip from his nose, and his hands are shaking. "Just what are you trying to protect?" Alfred asks, panicky.

And England pauses only a moment in his muttered chanting to give an answer that makes Alfred's stomach plummet. "The whole city, if I have to," the other breathes.

_The whole..._ Alfred acts on reflex, grabbing England's shoulder and pulling him back. This shatters England's concentration, and the older nation strikes out with surprising force, fueled by anger. "Fucking idiot!" England cries. "What was that for?"

Alfred easily deflects the hand trying to pummel him; England is no match for him when the other is almost doubled-up for the repeated bombs striking his figurative heart. "You're only going to hurt yourself!" America says, putting every ounce of his power behind his words. "You don't have the strength to protect the entire goddamn city!"

"I have enough power," England growls, though his words are somewhat belied by his bloodied state.

"_Not. anymore._" America's teeth are gritted in frustration. He knows that magic is dying, because England himself was the one to reveal that knowledge. America knows that there isn't any such thing as power to protect a city the size of London, not anymore, and there's England's physical state besides. His people are resilient, that's for sure, but he is still only one person, bearing every death and detonation in one body.

The sirens are wailing, and in the distance the bombs are dropping, and yet the silence between them is a palpable creature, wavering and uncertain but fierce. And, like before, England simply gives in. Arthur sinks to the ground and sits there, hands clutching his knees and tightening briefly with each successive bomb. He's muttering something again, and for one panicked moment, Alfred thinks he's trying another spell... until he realizes that Arthur is speaking in numbers.

"Seventy-five..." His hands contract suddenly. "Eighty tw- no, eighty-three..."

Deaths. Alfred knows, with horrific certainty, that this is what Arthur is counting. "What are you doing?" Alfred asks again, and this time he whispers it.

Arthur doesn't answer right away. "Remembering," he says at last, almost hopelessly, "... it's the only thing I can do for them."

Alfred can't take it anymore. Letting out a choked sigh, he sits himself down next to Arthur and, to Arthur's stiffened surprise, wraps an arm around the older nation's shoulders. He can feel Arthur shaking slightly, and Alfred wonders if perhaps he himself is trembling as well. His arm tightens a little, to make up for both of them.

"What are you doing?" Arthur asks softly, echoing Alfred.

"The only thing _I_ can do for _you_."

It's a mark of just how bad things are that Arthur doesn't seem even remotely embarrassed. They sit like that for a while, and Alfred simply holds his brother through every single spasm that shakes him, every death that he knows Arthur is silently counting.

"You know," Alfred says finally, needing to break the silence and get Arthur to a place where he can rest, "this floor is really uncomfortable."

"No one's asking you to be here," Arthur mutters.

"You need to rest."

"You really think I can sleep?"

"You need to _try_." Alfred rises to his feet and helps Arthur to his, decidedly ignoring all of Arthur's halfhearted protests. "C'mon," he says and gets him out of the kitchen, into the living room. Arthur sinks down onto one of the couches and closes his eyes, still sitting as rigidly as before, trying to steel himself against the trembling.

Alfred sits next to him and does the same thing again, pulling Arthur into a one-armed hug, and the older nation relaxes and lets himself shake, too exhausted to keep up any appearances in front of the person least likely to care about such things. And while the bombs rage outside in the city and in Arthur's heart, both sides of Alfred are quietly calculating just how long it will take for him to enter this war.

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><p>Alfred is snoring when Arthur gently edges away from him and climbs gingerly to his feet. Arthur smiles as he looks down at the younger nation; when Alfred sleeps, it is an all-encompassing activity. But it's a tired smile on Arthur's face, tinged with pain both physical and emotional, and it fades quickly. He turns, glancing at the window. It is tinted red - not from sunrise, still hours away, but from fire.<p>

When Arthur looks out the window, he sees the tops of the surrounding buildings lit by the distant glow of flame. The low horizon is red, and he knows what he would see if he looked over the buildings; he's done so often enough. It's a sickeningly awe-inspiring sight, to see London wreathed in flames and smoke, and the throbbing in his chest, thankfully no longer the equivalent of a heart attack, tells him exactly the amount of damage done, the lives lost. He counts them again, dully, then reaches up to touch his face and find that he's crying.

But now that the immediate pain has passed, he is able to re-shoulder everything Alfred had sought to lift from him. That brief respite was enough; he is England now, as hardy as the people who will carry on after all the fires have been put out. But when he looks back at Alfred, who is slumped where England had been sitting and who is snoring as loud as ever, it's Arthur who smiles, and he gets a blanket to place over the young nation, his chest aching with every step he takes. But the pain is no longer crippling, and his shoulders are straight and proud, and he bends only a moment to write a quick note for Alfred.

Then England grabs a coat and slips into it, hiding any sign of the damage done to his body, and he walks out the door, heading for the nearest fire brigade to offer his services in putting out the flames that consume parts of his London.

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><p><strong>Brief Obligatory History Lesson:<strong>  
>During World War II, the German Luftwaffe bombed the city of London for 57 consecutive nights after September 7, 1940. The attacks did not fully end until May of 1941. The intention was to break the morale of the British people, but it didn't work out this way. By the end of the bombing, thousands of buildings had been destroyed and over 40,000 people had died, but Hitler's initial goal of invasion and coercing the British to surrender failed, and he turned his attention to Russia instead.<p>

Also, the things Alfred mentions when he is rambling are bits and pieces of American culture during 1940-1941.


End file.
